


The Alphabet Affair - A

by spikesgirl58



Series: The Alphabet Affair [1]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-08
Updated: 2016-01-08
Packaged: 2018-05-12 14:38:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5669599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spikesgirl58/pseuds/spikesgirl58
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Illya is less than pleased when Napoleon forgets about him.</p><p>Prompts are: Apology and Alchemy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Alphabet Affair - A

**Author's Note:**

> This is written for the Beta Challenge in lj's MFUWSS community. Each month, two prompt words are given to reflect the overall challenge - the alphabet

_It is with great regret that we must inform you…_

_Please accept our sincere apologies…_

It seemed people were always apologizing to Illya for one thing or another. A dead relative, a lost friend, a misread signal - Illya dealt with all of these without a second thought. It was life after all and he was Russian. Disappointment was a daily occurrence back home. He’d learned to accept it and move on. Tomorrow was another day for another attempt. He’d hoped things would change now that he was in America, but, alas, he was still Russian and still an attraction for all the wrong things.

_Oh, sorry, I thought you were someone else…_

_It’s all my fault, I just thought we were friends, not…_

Yet nothing he’d experienced before prepared him for the sharpest cut of all. He’d been sitting in the restaurant for an hour. He eventually gave up and ordered dinner and a double vodka to wash it all down. Illya ignored the questioning stares of the other patrons. This was not the sort of restaurant where someone came alone to eat. This was an establishment for couples, for friends, for people, but not for a solitary person. He stuck out like a sore thumb.

He wanted to shout, “I don’t need your pity!” Instead, he paid the bill and walked quickly to the exit. Just then someone burst in, a flurry of flapping coat and elbows. Napoleon Solo had arrived on the scene.

“Christ, Illya, I’m sorry, I totally forgot about this.”

Illya studied his partner, the man he was supposed to be able to count on for anything, except Napoleon forgot about him - again. Just once he’d like to know what it was like to be at the top of Napoleon’s list and not an after thought.   Guess he’d never find out.

All the snide retorts that he’d thought up at the table fled his brain and he merely shook his head. “Whatever your excuse was, Napoleon, I’m certain she was worth it.”

Napoleon caught Illya’s elbow as he turned to leave. “No, really, I was working.”

“I’m sure you were.” Illya extricated himself from Napoleon’s grip and walked out into the night. He wanted to hear footsteps running to catch up. He wanted to hear Napoleon calling out to him, but nothing. Not even worth the effort, apparently.

It was late, but Illya knew a place where the night would be just getting started. The club would be called seedy by people of a less generous nature, but it suited Illya. The music was hot, the alcohol was cheap and the corners were dark. There, he was just one of the crowd, nobody special, and that was exactly how he felt tonight.

He listened to a singer belt out some blues, mournful and tugging at one’s soul, providing one had a soul. Illya wasn’t sure he did anymore. He ordered a drink, told them to leave the bottle and found a quiet table in the back of the room. He let the music seep into his consciousness until he was lost in it. He sipped his drink slowly. It wasn’t good vodka, but that wasn’t surprising. This was New York, after all, not Moscow.

“Comrade.” Illya looked from his glass.  Grigory Novogrotsky was standing there, a smile on his face and an empty glass in his hand. “You look like you just lost your best friend.”  He sat down without being invited.  It didn’t matter.  “And I am right here.”

Illya had known Grigory since Cambridge. Two ex-pats, they were drawn to each other and shared many a glass of ale while navigating those hallowed halls.  Upon graduation, Grigory headed back to the Soviet Union and Illya went to America, recruited by UNCLE to save the world.

Illya missed Grigory tremendously and then one night Grigory showed up on his doorstep, hat in his hands and suitcase at his feet. He never explained why or how he left the USSR and Illya never asked; they were that kind of friends.

“No, just had a bad night.” Illya switched to Russian, not that it mattered.  No one was paying any attention to them.  He gestured and Grigory immediately put out his glass a large grin on his lips.

“Uh huh, what’s her name?” Grigory made fast work of the alcohol and sighed happily, eyes half closed.

“No, not like that. I was meeting a friend for dinner and was stood up.”  Illya finished his drink and filled both glasses again.  “Instead of a nice evening of conversation and good food, I got a lame apology and indigestion.  All I wanted was just to sit and talk, like we are now.  I wasn’t asking for the moon, just a small bit of time.”

“A lame apology?” Grigory’s brow furrowed as he struggled with Illya’s meaning. “Chesterton once said that the injured party does not want to be compensated because he has been wronged; he wants to be healed because he has been hurt.”

“What do you mean?”

“Face it, Illya, you may not realize it, but you are acting like a man in love.”

 


End file.
